


Not Some Fragile Flower

by deathwailart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Pregnant Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart





	Not Some Fragile Flower

Long after Altaïr settles into the idea of fatherhood, embracing it and, when he thinks Maria is sound asleep, whispering to their unborn child, he becomes far more cautious and gentle. And Maria can understand that, truly, she can because she knows how easy it is for something to go wrong which is why she grudgingly limits herself the bigger her belly gets although she has firmly disabused him of the notion that she will sit around idle and useless for the entire duration.

But the gentleness extends past him making sure she’s comfortable because he won’t lie with her beyond using his mouth and fingers and even then he is hesitant, touches so fleeting that it just leaves her frustrated instead of fulfilled.

Right now he’s settled between her legs, two fingers just inside her and no more and tongue on her clit and it’s good, so good, even if the touches are so light that she could really just be imagining them.  
  
“Altaïr,” she raises her hips as much as she can with his other arm holding them steady, “please.” And she tangles her fingers in his hair as best she can, longer now than it was when she first met him under the guise of being Robert. He obliges her, fingers sliding all the way in and oh _God_ that’s better. Still not what she wants but it’s him, actually listening and not her own fingers when she can find a free moment and privacy. She comes quickly, surprising herself and her moan is high and quiet. Altaïr smiles up at her and his playful smiles at moments like this always catch her off guard; she never quite knows what to expect from one minute to the next with him but she likes that. She has never been in want of a boring, predictable life.

He’s kissing her belly, hands resting on her thighs when she grabs one of his wrists and he startles, smile beginning to give way to a frown.

“Maria?”  
  
“Do you trust me?” She asks breathlessly and he nods, “then you know that I’m a strong woman?” Again he nods, confusion creasing his brow but when she indicates for him to come closer, he does so willingly, allowing her to pull him into a kiss. She nips hard at his bottom lip when they break apart, faces still close when she fiercely whispers, “fuck me.”  
  
“Maria...” he shakes his head and moves back, one hand resting over the swell of her middle, “what if I hurt you? Or our child?”  
  
“Women having been having babies for centuries,” she brings both hands up to cup his face, “there’s nothing wrong with it. You’re not going to hurt anyone.”

It probably isn’t strictly fair of her to cup him through the linen trousers he’s still wearing but to hell with the rules, she doesn’t care. If he is going to insist on being pig headed then she’ll tie him to their bed and take charge – her belly isn’t so big it would get in the way.

“Maria,” he groans raggedly and rests his head against hers, thrusting up into her hand.  
  
“Fuck me,” she repeats, running her thumb against his bottom lip, “you’re not going to hurt either of us. I trust you.”

He fixes her with that intense, piercing stare of his but she gazes back with an equally challenging look until he smiles and he’s still hesitant but she can tell he’s going to listen to her so she keeps her gasp of _finally_ to herself as he slips off the trousers, urging her thighs apart as he lies between them. His fingers stroke her where she’s still sensitive and her back arches and the anticipation is making everything worse. Or better. She can’t quite decide because it’s taking him forever to actually do anything and if he doesn’t get a bloody move on she’s going to kill him.

“Altaïr,” she snaps in her most clipped, demanding tone and he gives her a wolfish grin, hands on her hips and then he’s pushing in and she’s squeezing her eyes shut, lifting her hips to help, toes and fingers curling in the sheets of their own volition. “Oh God,” she pants, bringing up one hand to clutch at his shoulder.

They move together slowly, her hands on his shoulders, his mouth at her breasts and she’s missed this. They never get enough time together to explore each other and he’s been away not so long ago to where she can’t recall but there’s a new scar forming on his upper back and it’s still raw enough that when she drags her fingers over it he hisses and snaps his hips up harder. She does it again and he looks up at her before he bites at her collarbone, easily hidden by the clothes she’ll wear but they like to leave marks on each other that they’ll feel throughout the day, private tattoos that fade in time but by then there’s normally a new one to take its place.

He jerks his hips harder and she cries out and she’s close, right on the edge and she tells him that when she can, not quite able to catch her breath. He drops his head to her neck and she manages to fit her palm between their bodies to rest on his chest, right where his heart is beating madly. There are words being whispered into her skin and she knows them but she can’t quite work them out and then she manages to plant her feet flat on the bed and press _up_ and then the warm heat that has been coiling within her builds and builds and Altaïr groans throatily and this time when her orgasm hits it’s intense, her muscles convulsing around him until he’s coming too, gasping hotly against her, hips still moving through the aftershocks.

Eventually, and she isn’t quite sure when because she’s too busy being utterly boneless and remembering how to breathe, body still buzzing, he gathers her into his arms and she goes willingly as he traces letters across her back and shoulders. She smiles and traces the same things in return, things they so seldom say aloud. They don’t need to but it’s nice to know that he loves her and to let him know in return that she loves him too with a ferocity that she never thought she would be capable of.

Her hand finds its way to his chest again where his heart is beating a steady reassuring rhythm and his hand rests where their child is growing, something full of unknown potential and promise. She finds herself yawning and he huffs out a quiet laugh, tugging the blanket up and over them, telling her to sleep so she pushes him until he lies flat on his back so she can lay her head on his chest and he can drape an arm over her, the kind of protective gesture she rarely welcomes in front of any others. He whispers quietly only it’s not quite whispering and it isn’t until she’s drifting closer and closer to sleep that she realises it must be the fragments of a lullaby.

She allows herself a smile and stretches in satisfaction, no doubt radiating contentment and then before she knows it, everything is a warm, pleasant haze. Her last coherent thought is that she’ll still tie him up very soon because he really is so wonderful beneath her like that.


End file.
